


Two Doctors and a Detective

by PipMer



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Especially when that destiny means a broken John Watson, Established Relationship, Fate is bullshit, Friendship, Gift Fic, M/M, Reichenbach Feels, Sherlock does not accept destiny, Suicidal Thoughts, The Rules are Wrong!, Time Travel, Timey-Wimey, screw the rules
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 11:07:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Changing one's destiny takes courage and stubbornness.  Sherlock Holmes has enough of both to change two of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Doctors and a Detective

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prettybirdy979](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybirdy979/gifts).



> This fic is a birthday gift for my friend prettybirdy979. Happy Birthday, girl!
> 
> This idea actually came to me months ago, and I shared a bit of it with her back then. I hope she doesn't mind me recycling it into this story! 
> 
> This is my first ever crossover attempt. Fair warning, it is also an attempt to step into a fandom that I'm actually very new to - Doctor Who. I debated whether I should even try, since I wasn't sure I knew enough to stay true to the premise. But my friend loves both Doctor Who and Sherlock, so I threw caution to the wind and decided, what the heck, I'll give it a go. I hope it satisfies.
> 
>  
> 
> **TRIGGER WARNING: Suicidal ideation**

 

 “Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Sherlock raised his head from splashing water on his face and looked in the mirror.  His eyes locked with those of the man behind him, who was lazily leaning against a stall, hands thrust inside his pockets.  Sherlock’s face broke into a grin as he whirled around to greet the intruder.

 

“Doctor.  My, you’re looking… young.”   Younger even than Sherlock.   The incongruity of that unsettled the detective, given that he was only a toddler when he had first been introduced to the Time Lord.  “How many years has it been?”

 

The young man returned Sherlock’s grin.  “Five years, for you; longer for me.”

 

“You’ve got a new body, I see.  How many to go now before the last?”

 

“Two. “

 

“Ah.  So I assume you’re being more careful these days.  You can’t afford to waste any more of your lives now, can you?”

 

“Indeed.  You’re looking well yourself.  In the middle of an exciting case, are you?  I’d know that glint in your eye anywhere.”

 

Sherlock rubbed his hands together with glee.  “Very exciting, perhaps the most challenging of my career.  Although I do have to rein in my enthusiasm to an acceptable level these days”

 

“Oh?”  The Doctor brushed at his jacket and contemplated his fingernails.  “Why is that?”

 

Sherlock’s face did something inscrutable.  “I have a colleague now, a… friend.  He’s very particular about how I behave in certain situations.”

 

“As in ‘kidnapped children’ situations?”

 

Sherlock frowned.  :”Exactly.  Have you been spying on me?”

 

The Doctor laughed.  “Oh no; not as such.  I just hear things now and again.  I have ears everywhere, you know.”

 

Sherlock scowled.  “Yes, even in the Met, it would seem.   Do you also have ears in the British Government?”

 

The Doctor blinked.  “Of course I do.  I’m surprised you have to ask.”

 

“It was rhetorical,” Sherlock muttered.

 

The Doctor’s smile faded.  “I’m here for a specific purpose, Sherlock.  You need to come with me.”

 

“I’m in the middle of a case, Doctor; kidnapped children, remember?  The clock is ticking.”

 

“Yes, well, remember who you’re talking to.  I’ll return you to this exact moment afterwards, no time will be lost.  Follow me, please.”

 

Sherlock sighed as he automatically followed the Doctor’s lead.  “Is this really necessary?  Why can’t it wait until after I’ve cracked this puzzle?”

 

The Doctor turned and fixed the detective with an unreadable expression.  “Because by then, it will be too late.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The detective followed the Doctor up to the rooftop of Bart’s, where a familiar blue box was sitting there waiting.  Sherlock’s eyes brightened at the sight.  It had been a very long time since his last adventure with the Doctor, but he still felt a familiar sense of anticipation flood his veins.  He had had many encounters with the TARDIS since he was a small boy.  All the experiences he had had apart from it paled in comparison.  Perhaps a quick jaunt wouldn’t hurt.  After all, the case would still be there when he returned.

 

“So, where and when are we going this time?” Sherlock asked as he watched the Doctor fiddle with the switches and dials.  “Past or future?”

 

“Future.”

 

“Oh good; the past is so predictable.  How far in the future?”

 

“Just one day, for starters.”

 

Sherlock blinked.  “One day?  We’re going to visit tomorrow?”  He huffed in annoyance.  “What could have possibly happened between now and then?  Did an asteroid hit the Earth?  Did North Korea finally fire their missiles at America?  It had better be something damned interesting, you know how I hate having my time wasted.”

 

The Doctor looked up, and Sherlock’s tirade stuttered to a halt.  In the depths of those ancient eyes, all he could see was an unfathomable sadness.

 

“Oh, believe me,” the Time Lord said barely above a whisper.  “You’ll find it very interesting indeed.”

 

Sherlock didn’t say another word until they landed at their destination.  Which happened to be directly across the street from where they had just left.  Sherlock rolled his eyes as he stepped out of their transport and proceeded to walk to the edge of the building.  “Really, Doctor?  This is all a bit dramatic for such a short journey, both temporally and spatially, don’t you think?”

 

The Doctor didn’t take a step beyond the entryway of the TARDIS.  “Stop talking, Sherlock, and open your eyes.  What do you see?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes swept across the busy street below, taking in as much data in as little time as possible.  They travelled up the side of the hospital, storey by storey, until they came to rest on a figure standing on the rooftop ledge.  Sherlock squinted.  The figure was wearing a large thick coat and a blue scarf – the very things Sherlock himself was presently wearing - and had a shock of dark hair on his head.  He spread his arms wide, and stepped off the building to go plummeting to the ground below.  Sherlock’s stomach dropped with him. He gasped, and his knuckles turned white as he grasped the balustrade in front of him. 

 

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the bloodied body on the pavement, not until he saw John Watson reaching for its wrist and being pulled away by someone in the crowd.  At that point, he closed his eyes, not willing to countenance that expression of extreme shock and utter grief.

 

A hand closed around his shoulder, and he jerked back, eyes flying open.  “Easy, lad,” the Doctor murmured as he placed his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and gently turned him around.  He led the shell-shocked, trembling detective back into the TARDIS and sat him down on a chair.  He left him alone for a few minutes, then came back bearing a newspaper in his hand.  He placed it on Sherlock’s lap. 

 

“Tomorrow’s headline,” he said.

 

Screaming up at Sherlock were the bold words “ **SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS.”** His eyes flew up to meet the Doctor’s, who raised an eyebrow and cocked his head, signalling for Sherlock to read.

 

Sherlock rapidly scanned the article.  “This isn’t possible,” he said, disbelief colouring his words.  “I would never kill myself.  There’s nothing that could possibly happen that would make me do such a thing.”

 

“And yet you did,” the Doctor responded calmly, gesturing to the paper.  “The proof is right in front of your eyes.”

 

Sherlock stared at the wall opposite.  “Is this one of those circumstances that can be changed?”

 

The Doctor shook his head.  “No.  This one’s a fixed point, one on which crucial events hinge.  Any attempt to change it would…”

 

“Would what?” Sherlock sneered, throwing the newspaper down and standing up.  He faced the Doctor with his fists clenched.  “Unravel the fabric of space and time, destroying the universe as we know it?”

 

The Doctor returned Sherlock’s glare, unwavering.   “Something like that,” he responded.

 

Sherlock crossed his arms.   “If nothing can be done, why bring me here and show me this?  Why show me my own death?  I thought you had rules against that sort of thing.”

 

The Doctor’s eyes gleamed as he fixed Sherlock with an unrelenting stare.  “You are a great man, Sherlock Holmes, and you were well on your way to becoming a good one, all due to your Dr Watson.  You may not get the chance now, but I thought you at least deserved to know what was coming so that you could prepare both yourself and him for the inevitable.”

 

“John and I have not left anything unsaid between us,” Sherlock replied flatly.

 

The Doctor smiled sadly.  “I certainly hope that’s true.”

 

“I’m still not convinced,” Sherlock said with an air of petulance.  He paced back and forth in front of the Doctor, hands tugging at his curls.  “Something’s not right.  I wouldn’t commit suicide, Doctor!  You know that I wouldn’t.  There’s nothing in my nature that indicates such a possibility.”

 

“Remember what I taught you, Sherlock?  No matter how improbable, after eliminating the impossible, whatever remains must be true.  Whether you actually kill yourself or not doesn’t really matter, in the end.  What matters is that on June 15, 2012, you die.  You just watched it happen.  Is there anything else you need to see to be convinced?”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, stopping his pacing to sweep his gaze over the Doctor’s form.  “I want you to show me my gravestone. 

 

The Doctor nodded.  “Very well,” he said. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock stood at a distance and watched as John poured out his heart to a headstone emblazoned with the bold engraving **“SHERLOCK HOLMES”.** He was transfixed by the anguish in John’s voice as he pled with the unresponsive grave for a miracle that he would surely never get.  He felt unexpected warmth well up behind his eyes; he quickly blinked it away before it had a chance to manifest as tears. 

 

“How long?” he asked the figure beside him.

 

“Three months.”

 

“Three months,” Sherlock whispered.  “How can he look so much older after only three months?”

 

“John Watson is more than just a colleague and friend, isn’t he?”  his companion asked.

 

Sherlock nodded.  “Much more,” he replied, his voice breaking on the last word.  He swallowed hard.  “And yet I would never have expected him to be so affected.”

 

“You’re an idiot.”

 

“Yes.”

 

The detective and the Doctor stood as still as statues, watching the man that Sherlock loved assume a military stance before limping away out of the cemetery.

 

“Is there anybody else you’d like to check up on before we go back?”

 

“No.  Although I would ask of you a boon; a dying wish, if you would.  Show me a few moments in John’s life leading up to the first  two years after.  I want to make sure he’s going to be okay.”

 

“What difference will that make, Sherlock?  Whether he is or isn’t, there’s nothing you can do to change things.  Maybe it’s better not to know.”

 

“It’s _never_ better to remain in ignorance; knowledge is always preferable.  Forewarned is forearmed.”

 

“Or foresight is 20-20?” the Doctor quipped.  He flinched under Sherlock’s withering glare.  He sighed.  “Alright, but only up to two years.  And just remember that I advised against this.”

 

“Noted.  Now do lead on.”

 

***

 

The Doctor showed him six months in, when they both watched John stumble out of a Tesco with a plastic bag clutched in one hand and a cane in the other.  The Doctor showed him one year in, when they saw a very inebriated John stagger out of a pub and try unsuccessfully to hail a cab.  He was alone, and he looked absolutely awful.  His eyes were red-rimmed, his complexion sallow and cheeks sunken.  Sherlock’s heart hurt just looking at him. 

 

Their next stop was meant to be at the two-year mark, but somehow the TARDIS lost control of her own navigation system and they landed in an undetermined time.  After scrambling for an address and making some surreptitious phone calls, they landed next to a small bungalow just outside of Manchester in the early evening hours.  The yard was unkempt, grass un-mowed  and overgrown with weeds.  Sherlock snuck up to a lit window and peeked inside.  He had to rub away the grime to see properly.  The sight that greeted him made his chest clench painfully.  John Watson sat on an unmade bed, dishevelled in a white t-shirt and blue boxers.  His hair was sticking up at all angles and almost completely grey.  His face was lined, his frame gaunt and rail-thin.  He looked like ten  years had passed since Sherlock had last seen him.  But what rattled him the most was the sight of a gun sitting in John’s lap, fingers clenched around the grip.  He watched in horror as his friend lifted the gun to his temple.  John’s eyes remained open, albeit empty and unseeing; among all the words that described the doctor, ‘coward’ was not one of them.  He would face his death head-on, with no flinching. 

 

Sherlock scrambled  to form his hands into fists with every intention of banging on the glass and screaming John’s name.  Before he could do so, he felt the pinch of a needle at his neck and the hardness of the ground at his back.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock; you know the rules.  I couldn’t let you make contact.”

 

Sherlock scowled as he paced back and forth in front of the console.  “Do you mind telling me what the purpose of all this was?” he asked, waving his hand to indicate the surrounding environs.  “This was all a colossal waste of time, if nothing can be done to stop what I saw.  You’ve made exceptions before, I’ve seen you do it.  Why won’t you make one this time?”

 

The Doctor rocked back on his heels and fixed Sherlock with a penetrating gaze.  “The friendship of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson will go down in history as one of the greatest partnerships of all time.  The events that will transpire during _your_ tomorrow will cement that  legend in stone and make it an indelible thread in the fabric of reality.  Those same events will also lead to the ultimate downfall of the most widespread and invasive criminal empire that the world has ever seen.  It _must_ happen, Sherlock.  There is no other way.”

 

Sherlock hung his head in defeat.  “But I don’t understand!” he bit out.  “John and I have only known each other for eighteen months, certainly not enough time to establish such an enduring mythos.  Besides, what kind of legacy can be left by a disgraced detective who commits suicide and a doctor – slash – blogger who fades away into obscurity and depression?  It doesn’t make any _sense!”_

The Doctor shook his head sadly.  “I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he said regretfully.  “There’s nothing more I can tell you.  You’re just going to have to trust me.”

 

“Trust you?”  Sherlock barked out a bitter laugh.  “Trust a man who by his own admission will lie through his teeth in order to get the results he wants?  Do you take me for a fool, Doctor?”

 

“I’ve never lied to _you,_ Sherlock, and I’m not lying now, I promise.  Please, will you trust me on this?”

 

Sherlock shook his head, anger and defeat displayed by the tense set of his shoulders.  “I don’t really have a choice now, do I?”

 

***

 

The TARDIS successfully returned Sherlock to Bart’s rooftop at precisely two minutes after his initial departure from the men’s toilet.  He and the Doctor parted ways stoically, with the Doctor clasping his shoulders in a fond and bittersweet farewell.  Sherlock made his way carefully back to the loo, where he took a moment to lean against the sink and study his reflection.  He took a deep breath and willed himself to return to the mind-set he was in before the Doctor’s arrival, when he was high on the thrill of the chase and the excitement of pitting his intelligence against a worthy opponent.  He couldn’t give anything away, especially not to John.

 

He returned to the lab, draped his coat and scarf across a chair, and set his mind to the case at hand.  He succeeded for about fifteen minutes on remaining focussed on his collection of evidence before his attention started to wander.  His brain kept conjuring up the images of John that he had glimpsed while with the Doctor:  John racked with grief in front of Sherlock’s gravestone; John with a regained limp and a regained need for a cane; John drowning his sorrows in alcohol, with no companion to help mitigate the loneliness; John looking so resigned and beat-down in a squalid room in a run-down house.  John, so alone and in so much pain.  _John, John, John._

“You look sad, when you think he can’t see you.”

 

Leave it to quiet, unassuming Molly Hooper to get right to the crux of the matter.

 

Sherlock hadn’t really been paying attention to Molly when she started rambling about something having to do with her father, and dying.  It was the change in her tone that made him perk up and take notice.  Apparently, he hadn’t been as successful in sublimating his roiling emotions as he had thought.  At first he panicked and tried his standard tactic of deflection.  But when Molly wouldn’t be dismissed and made her offer of assistance, Sherlock grew thoughtful as his mental gears started to grind.  Surely, _surely_ there was something that could be done to change the outcome of the following day.  There was no such thing as fate, or predestination.  People created their own futures with the choices they made every day.  A different choice could lead to a different outcome.  Sherlock _had_ to believe that.  There was no way he was going to abandon John to a grey and hopeless existence, not even for the destruction of an evil worldwide criminal web.  _Fuck_ the Doctor and whatever agenda he was trying to further. 

 

Besides, he knew the Doctor, and he knew that something didn’t quite add up about all of this.  The Time Lord was a master manipulator of people’s perceptions of reality; he had a reason for letting Sherlock glimpse into his own future, and it wasn’t the courtesy of allowing him to get his ‘affairs in order’, as it were.  His methods were much more subtle than that; Sherlock would know, since he himself had absorbed them at the Doctor’s knee from the tender age of three.

 

Sherlock already had the initial steps of a plan worked out by the time he and John departed for Scotland Yard.  Somehow, he would cheat death and stop the events that apparently would lead to John, isolated and forgotten, fondling a gun.  That scenario would not be allowed to happen.  _It would not._

* * *

 

Molly proved to be an indispensable ally as Moriarty’s endgame played out.  As it turned out, Sherlock had to rely on ‘Plan B’ when his nemesis unexpectedly killed himself.  He was able to convincingly fake his death with the morgue attendant’s assistance , without which he had no doubt that death would have been real.  So the first step of the plan – to survive the day and cheat death – was a resounding success.  The flush of that success gave Sherlock a false sense of security, and he allowed himself to relax his guard and breathe a little easier.

 

 

The second step of the plan was not accomplished so swiftly and easily – that of returning to John within a reasonable period of time.  It took much longer than Sherlock intended and took him much further away from his friend than he ever wanted to be.  The intent had been to have everything wrapped up in six months at the most.  He had no idea how much time was supposed to have elapsed when he had looked through a filthy window to see John caressing his gun, but he knew that it was imperative that he return before that happened.  It all would have been for naught if John ended up with a self-inflicted bullet to the head. 

 

 

So it was that thirty months after his “Fall” – two and a half years -  Sherlock returned from the dead.  Before heading to London, he made his way swiftly to the little house just outside of Manchester.  Unlike the last time he was there, the house gleamed with a recent coat of paint, the windows sparkling in the afternoon sun.  The walkway was swept clean of debris and cleared of the melting snow.  Sherlock’s heart clenched and soared simultaneously.   He didn’t know whether to rejoice that he had made it in time to prevent John’s descent into squalor and inescapable anguish, or to despair that this was a new owner who had taken over after the residence was left vacant following the death of the occupant.  The lack of data was maddening.

 

Sherlock took a deep breath as he stood before the glossy white door.  He raised his hand and rapped it against the wood three times in quick succession before stepping back to wait with his back ramrod straight, hands clasped behind his back. He was surprised to find himself trembling, even though he didn’t feel cold. 

 

The door swung open, and there he stood.  John Watson, looking as fit as he ever had when Sherlock knew him.  His hair was an acceptable dishwater blond, not a faded and lustreless grey.  His skin shone with a healthy glow, with no hint of the pallor Sherlock had seen in his future self.  Eyes bright and unclouded, his mouth lifted in a half-smile as it started to form a greeting before faltering midway.  His eyes widened a fraction and he stood slack-jawed for a brief moment before snapping his mouth shut.  Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat as he watched that mouth curve downward in a slight frown.  Then, as if a light switch had been flipped, John broke out into the widest grin Sherlock had ever seen before being roughly jerked forward into a fierce hug.

 

“I knew it.  I bloody _knew_ it! “ John exclaimed into Sherlock’s neck.  “God.  Oh God, please don’t let this be a dream.  Please.”  John’s embrace tightened painfully, and Sherlock gasped out, “Not a dream.”

 

John drew back and loosened his grip without releasing it.  “I’m sorry.  Christ, I’m sorry, Sherlock.”  He rubbed his hands up and down Sherlock’s arms.  He couldn’t seem to stop touching his friend.  “I’ve been hoping… I haven’t been able to stop thinking that…” 

 

He finally gave up speaking as a lost cause; instead , he cradled Sherlock’s head in his hands and leaned in for a scorching kiss.

 

Sherlock’s mouth opened up eagerly beneath his.  They briefly fought for dominance before settling into the familiar rhythm they had perfected before their world had been torn asunder.  Sherlock tilted his head to the side to accommodate John’s shorter stature and wrapped his arms around the doctor’s waist.  The feel of John’s moist lips against his own chapped ones settled something inside of him, and his trembling slowly stuttered to a halt.  Warmth and belonging suffused his being, replacing the aching loneliness and anxious foreboding.  He sighed into his friend’s mouth and deepened the kiss, eliciting a small moan from the older man. 

 

After what felt like hours, the prolonged and desperate kiss, full of heat and passion and promise, settled into a gentle and unhurried caressing of the lips.  This in turn transformed into a litany of butterfly kisses,  tongues flicking briefly.  Finally, the two friends rested their foreheads together and breathed in each other’s air, reluctant to end their connection.

 

“So,” Sherlock rasped out hoarsely, “you’ve got questions.”

 

John barked out an hysterical laugh.  “I do, actually, although I figure that you had a damn good reason.  You wouldn’t have left me for anything less.”

 

“No,” Sherlock said softly, squeezing John’s shoulders.  “No, I wouldn’t have.”

 

***

 

Sherlock sat in John’s armchair in John’s sitting room, in John’s comfortable but modest home.  A cheerful fire crackled in the fireplace.  There was a lingering scent of pine needles from the tree that had just recently been taken down.  Sherlock clutched a tumbler of scotch in one hand while resting the other on the chair arm.  His legs were crossed in a relaxed manner, belying the nervous energy that was coursing through his body at the moment. 

 

He had just finished the abridged version of what had transpired since that awful day two and a half years  ago, and now he was anxiously awaiting John’s reaction.  Honestly, he had expected a much colder welcome than the one he had received.  Perhaps now, after hearing Sherlock’s explanation, John would revert to predictable behaviour and order him to leave, promising to never speak to him again.  Sherlock tensed, preparing himself for the worst.

 

Several minutes of silence ticked by before Sherlock couldn’t take it any longer and found the courage to make eye contact.  What he saw there didn’t surprise him in the least; he sighed in  resignation. 

 

John’s expression was thunderous.  The blood had drained from his face, and his fists were clenched tightly at his sides.  Then he spoke, and once again Sherlock’s expectations were blown out of the water.

 

“Do you mean to tell me,” John bit out, raising a finger to stab at Sherlock, “that you’ve been out there this whole time, on your own, trying to take down a worldwide criminal organisation, and your bloody brother couldn’t be bothered to step in and help?  Even after handing you to Moriarty on a silver platter?  He hung you out to dry, and he still let you take all the risks?” He got up and started pacing.  “I’m going to kill him.  I’m going to fucking kill him!”

 

Sherlock stared.  “You’re not angry with me?”

 

John glanced at him as he walked by.  “What?  Well, yeah, a bit, I guess.  Not much, really.  _I’m going to kill him!”_

Sherlock reached out a shaking hand.  “No, stop, John.  Mycroft didn’t know.  Molly was the only one who knew.  Do you really think I’d trust my brother with this after what he did?  You continue being angry at him for _that,_ but this one’s all on me.  Although I appreciate you coming to my defence.”  Sherlock tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace.

 

John’s features softened.  He took Sherlock’s hand and nudged his legs apart to stand between them.  Sherlock had to tilt his head up to look at him; he found that he quite liked this perspective.  John cupped his jaw, thumb stroking his cheek.

 

“There were so many times I almost gave up, you know; so many times I just wanted to quit everything, to lie down and never get back up.  But every time I thought that, I’d catch a glimpse of you out of the corner of my eye.  I knew they were probably hallucinations, but I couldn’t stop thinking… what if?  What if it’s him?  What if he’s really alive?  So I would put aside the idea of giving up for a day, for a week, for a month… just in case.  Just in case you came back to me.”  He shrugged, eyes glistening.  “I figured, if anyone could come back from the dead, _you_ could, right?  And look…  you did.  You’re so brilliant that you figured out how to keep us safe _and_ return to us yourself, alive and mostly unharmed.  That’s amazing.”

 

Sherlock swallowed.  He was just vain enough to not mention the fact that he had been given an advantage with his foreknowledge of events.  He wasn’t sure he would have been so attuned to his circumstances or so motivated otherwise.  If he hadn’t seen what lay in John’s future, unless something were done to stop it….

 

He blinked as the first part of John’s revelation began to sink in.

 

  
“Wait.” Sherlock squeezed John’s hands.  “Do you mean to say that you saw me?”  He sat up straight.  “When?  Tell me when that happened, every instance.”

 

John frowned.  “Why?  That _was_ you, wasn’t it?  Please tell me I didn’t imagine it.”

 

Sherlock shook his head.  “I don’t think you did, no.  But tell me when these sightings were.  Please, it’s important.”

 

Sherlock’s grip tightened, and he was looking at John with an intense expression.  John never could deny him when he graced him with that look.

 

John nodded.  “Alright.  The first time was about three months… after.  Mrs Hudson and I had gone to visit your grave for the first time since the funeral.  As I was leaving, I could have sworn I saw you off in the distance, by the treeline.  You were just standing there, with the same coat and scarf – looking exactly the same, as if you had never jumped off a building.  That’s why at first I thought I was just seeing things.  Wishful thinking, you know.”  He  closed his eyes and swallowed hard.  Sherlock rubbed his arms encouragingly.

 

John opened his eyes and locked gazes with his friend.  “Every time, except for the last, that’s what you would do, just … stand there and watch me.  Once was after a shopping trip to Tesco, I thought I saw you on the street corner.  After that… it was a dark and rainy night, and I had just come out of the pub.  I had been drinking quite heavily; I barely remember how I even got home.  But I do remember thinking I saw you across the street. “  John scrunched his face up in remembrance.  “You were with a bloke who was wearing a bow tie, I believe?  I can’t be sure, it was really dark at the time.

 

“Anyway, the last time probably literally saved my life.  It was here, at this exact house.  I had rented it six months previous.  Had to get out of London, to move on with my life, yeah?  Anyway, it didn’t work.  Moving away from the memories was the worst thing I could have done.  The two-year anniversary came around, and I figured that if you really were still alive, you would have already let me know before then.  So I decided to end it.  I was in my bedroom, gun in hand, minutes away from… when something blue flashed at the window.  It was just a quick movement, but I caught sight of your scarf before you disappeared.  I rushed over and looked out, but by then there was nothing to see.  I waited for a knock at my door, for you to finally show yourself… but of course, that didn’t happen.  But that infused me with fresh hope.  I couldn’t explain it, but somehow I knew that you were watching over me, and that when the time was right, you’d come back.  So I pulled myself together.  I went back to therapy, applied for jobs, reconnected with old friends as much as I was able.  I even put a fresh coat of paint on the house and tried to make my surroundings reflect something other than apathy and hopelessness. 

 

“And it was you, wasn’t it?”  John stroked Sherlock’s face.  “Looking out for me?  Sherlock?  You alright?”

 

Sherlock stared past John’s shoulder, eyes unfocussed and unseeing.  “That already happened?” he whispered.  “You – you almost put a bullet in your brain?”

 

“Yes,” John replied, frowning.  “You saw it, remember?  You were there.”  John ran a soothing hand through Sherlock’s hair.  “Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

 

A shudder rippled through Sherlock’s body as his memories took him backwards in time.  The last stop the Doctor was supposed to make with Sherlock was two years into John’s future, but the TARDIS’ controls went haywire and had landed in an unknown year.  Sherlock had assumed from John’s physical appearance that several years had passed; at least four, probably more.  But it had only been two.  Two years since Sherlock’s ‘death’, to the day. 

 

The TARDIS had never lost control.  They had landed on the precise day they had meant to.

 

_Why, that manipulative, conniving, unbelievable…_

Sherlock’s head fell back against the chair and his shoulders started shaking.  Deep chuckles burst forth and turned into rich, joyful laughter as all the pieces clicked into place.  Oh the Doctor had been clever, so very clever, and if there was one thing Sherlock appreciated apart from intelligence, it was creativity. 

 

_Oh, Doctor,_ Sherlock thought as he wiped the tears of mirth from his eyes, _if I ever see you again, I won’t know whether to punch you or kiss you._

John stepped back in surprise, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.  “Sherlock?  What is it?”

 

Sherlock grinned as he hoisted himself up via John’s arms.  “What it is, my dear John, is the cusp of a new year, and I have already received my fondest wish;  to return and find you safe, whole and reasonably happy.”  He leaned down for a kiss.  “Now, are you just going to stand there, or are you going to give me the grand tour?”

 

John blinked.  His cheeks turned pink and a wide goofy grin threatened to crack his face in two.  He grabbed Sherlock’s hand and tugged him along after him.  “Brilliant idea.  Tour it is.  I think we’ll start with the master bedroom.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

_2 January, 2046_

_Article by Amanda Riley-Knight_

_Yesterday the first copies of Doctor John H. Watson’s much anticipated, semi-autobiographical work “ **The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes”**  hit the bookshelves.  To no one’s surprise, the book has broken all records of first-day sales, including that of Sherlock Holmes’ own magnum opus **“A Comparison of Honey Production Between Apis mellifera and Apis cerana.”**   _

_This collection of stories includes, of course, the most famous Sherlock Holmes tale of all, the one that clinched an immortal spot in the history books for our intrepid heroes and made them a household name.  I refer, of course, to The Reichenbach Fall, the case that ended with the downfall of the notorious criminal James Moriarty and the destruction of his deeply entrenched, widespread enterprise.  How Holmes unwittingly manipulated Moriarty into killing himself and then went on to escape the trap set for him, ultimately bringing down his nemesis’ empire, is a familiar yarn to most.  But here Watson reveals some details that have never before been released, adding an extra ‘human’ dimension to the story that we haven’t heard before._

_This reporter was graciously invited into the home of  Mr Holmes and Dr Watson, a cosy cottage located just outside of Brighton, for the conduction of a personal interview.  My perspective is a unique one, and will undoubtedly be coloured by more than a little personal bias, since I have been intimately acquainted with these gentlemen for most of my life.  Both my parents, you see, played major supporting roles in their drama, and became very good friends of theirs following Mr Holmes dramatic return from the dead.  The story that follows has been enthusiastically approved by both parties, and I am deeply humbled to have been entrusted with their illustrious legacy._

**[Story continued on page 13]**

**Author's Note:**

> My personal headcanon is that Post-Reichenbach John Watson would not be quite as broken as portrayed here, and certainly not suicidal. But I decided that trope was essential to the plot of this particular story, so that's how I wrote him. Although I do find it easy to buy into the idea that he might have been suicidal Post-Afghanistan/Pre-Sherlock.


End file.
